Hope is the thing with feathers

I love the poetry of Emily Dickinson. Her work is brave, unique, beautiful and poignant.

This is my favourite.

HOPE is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

“Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet who was born in 1830 and died in 1886. She lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.

Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime. Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent.

Despite unfavourable reviews and scepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.”